The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) 📖

Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.

He would now call the prisoner.

John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest’s skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.

At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:

“I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether’s insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have.”

Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John’s protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.

Then the cross-examination began.

“I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?”

“No, I don’t think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case.”

“Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation—fragments which you must have recognized?”

“I did not recognize them.”

“Your memory must be unusually short!”

“No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother’s actual words.”

Mr. Philips’ incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.

“You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the handwriting of it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own handwriting—carelessly disguised?”

“No, I do not think so.”

“I put it to you that it is your own handwriting!”

“No.”

“I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!”

“No.”

“Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist’s shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?”

“No, that is a lie.”

“I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp’s clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there—and signed the register in his name!”

“That is absolutely untrue.”

“Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of handwriting between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury,” said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.

After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.

Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.

“What is it, Poirot?” I inquired.

“Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly.”

In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.

When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary’s offer of tea.

“No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room.”

I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!

My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:

“No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!”

“What is the trouble?” I asked.

With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.

“It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot”—thump—“find”—thump—“that last link of which I spoke to you.”

I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.

“It is done—so! By placing—one card—on another—with mathematical—precision!”

I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.

“What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen your hand shake once.”

“On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt,” observed Poirot, with great placidity.

“Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp’s bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say–-”

But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.

“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken ill?”

“No, no,” he gasped. “It is—it is—that I have an idea!”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, much relieved. “One of your ‘little ideas’?”

“Ah, ma foi, no!” replied Poirot frankly. “This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you—you, my friend, have given it to me!”

Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.

Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.

“What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: ‘A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!’ And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street.”

I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair.

“He’ll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!”

Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.

“What can be the matter?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw.”

“Well,” said Mary, “I expect he will be back before dinner.”

But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.